Hardball
by Britton
Summary: Just a brief foray into the annual CSI Softball game.


Hardball  
  
It was one of those supposed-to-be-casual games meant to foster a sense of competition among workmates. But over the years, the annual CSI Softball Game had become something of a focal point during the Police Department's summer family picnic. The CSIs, being generally made up of single people, tended to take the game more seriously than it was initially intended. It didn't help that the daytime supervisor, Conrad Ecklie, and the night time supervisor and department head, Gilbert Grissom, despised the ground the other walked upon. Over the last five years, the CSI softball game had become a matter of pride and the fierceness with which the players engaged the game had made it a favorite spectacle for the other picnic-goers.  
  
This year was no exception. The previous year, Grissom's Graveyard had trounced Ecklie's Astros and payback was in the air. The stands and sidelines were packed with off-duty officers (and a few on-duty ones who managed to swing their patrols through the neighborhood) and their families. Beer and excitement were flowing freely. For at the moment, the entire game was on the line.  
  
Greg Sanders gulped, stepped nervously to the plate. He'd been a last minute replacement for the far more talented Archie when the latter had to leave town on a family emergency. Warrick and Nick had worked with the young tech relentlessly for the last week, but after he had gotten knocked in the head trying to field one of Warrick's "easy" hits, Greg despaired of ever being able to play this game. For one thing, he couldn't reconcile the name softball - the balls were damn hard, thinking of the lump on his head. In any case, of all the fears in life, having a game this important riding on his abilities was almost more than he could stand. He wondered briefly if there were designated hitters in softball, and as he decided there probably were not, the first pitch went cruising straight over the plate.  
  
"Strike one!" Umpire (and Deputy) Simmons hollered.  
  
Greg could hear his teammates bemoaning him - and worse, Ecklie's team applauding. Damn Ecklie.  
  
"Nice going, labrat. Man, you'd think I'd been paying you to throw the game to us," Ecklie himself chortled, tossing the ball back to his pitcher.  
  
Greg, a right handed hitter, choked up on the bat and prepared for the next pitch.  
  
"Don't choke up!" Brawny Nick Stokes yelled from the dugout and as Greg perked up and replied, "What?" the second pitch flew across the plate.  
  
"Nick, will you shut UP!" Warrick boomed all the way from second base. Warrick Brown, tall, fast and athletic, was the winning run. Greg was probably the last out. Willowy Sara Sidle bounced up and down on first base, her fresh-face still puffed with pride that her bunt had allowed Warrick to get into scoring position and the pitcher's fumbling had kept her hit from being a sacrifice. She yelled encouragement to Greg from her short lead off the bag.  
  
Grissom, who was the next batter up, stormed back to the dugout and threatened Nick with a lifetime on graveyard shifts and all major holidays if he couldn't control himself.  
  
There was more than mere winning riding on this game. For Grissom, it wasn't about love of the game. He had to beat Ecklie. It was an unwritten law and not one of the graveyard shift CSIs wanted to deal with Grissom should they fail. Last year they'd humiliated the daytimers, 14 -3. They'd had the powerhouses of Warrick, who batted left and almost always over the back fence of the field, Nick whose line drives filled Ecklie's fielders with terror, and Ben Morrison, a coroner who was not only a switch hitter but could run the 100 yard dash in 11 seconds. Sadly, they'd lost Ben when he had accepted a new position in Reno. This year, in the bottom of the final inning, Grissom's team with last ups, the score was tied - 5-5. Ecklie had managed to recruit one of the sheriff department's maintenance staffers, a man who had been playing in AAA ball until he'd snapped a hamstring a couple of years before.  
  
Greg smiled and waved to Sara, then tried to block everything else out of his mind. Somehow, the realization came that if he actually got a hit, he'd be able to chase Sara around the bases. Maybe softball wasn't so bad....  
  
He gripped the bat, trying to remember where the hell to put his hands, and then recalled Warrick's hours of training and advice. He crouched, rested all his weight on his right leg and waited. He concentrated, kept his eye on the ball and tuned out all the advice being thrown at him from both dugouts.  
  
Never in his life had Greg swung so hard. Never in his life had he prayed to so many deities. And by some miracle, one of them must have been listening. With a resounding CRACK, Greg's bat made solid contact with the softball and he sent it driving deep into left center.  
  
Warrick bolted toward third. Sara yelping with excitement, sprinted from first.  
  
"RUN GREG! RUN!" Grissom, Nick, Catherine, Jacqui, David and Leah screamed in unison.  
  
Startled out of his shock at actually hitting the ball, Greg's long legs ate up the ground and he arrived safely at first but the center fielder had the ball and had fired it to second base. But speedy Sara had made safely to second already.  
  
Greg beamed with pride then realized the graveyard shift was hysterically jumping up and down and shouting, waving their arms. He could hear Grissom above the rest, as the senior supervisor was waving his arms frantically. "Home, Warrick! Home!!"  
  
Warrick had clipped third before Greg ever got to first but it was going to be a close race, Ecklie's team relaying the ball with stunning speed and accuracy. Warrick was powering toward home at a speed that seemed unreal. The second baseman's throw to Ecklie, was somewhat awry and the catcher had to come several feet off the plate to catch it.  
  
What happened next would be debated about for years to come. Ecklie found himself directly in the line of the runner. Grissom saw Warrick, barreling toward home, fix his sight on Ecklie. The daytime supervisor crouched, an evil glint in his eye, and braced himself for the impact. It was only at the last moment that it suddenly dawned on Ecklie just how big and how fast Warrick was. But by then, it was too late...  
  
Every single person watching the imminent crash winced. There was a hefty whump as a rock-solid 200 pound body crashing into a considerably less solid 200 pound body. Ecklie went flying over backward, the ball knocked from his grasp as Warrick's momentum carried them both across the home base, landing in a tangled heap.  
  
There was a moment of profound silence, the dust settling over the weekend combatants, then Deputy Morrison threw his arms to the side and hollered "SAFE!".  
  
To say hell had broken loose would only touch the surface. They CSI dayshift cleared their bench, charging toward Morrison with murder in their eyes and poison on their tongues. Naturally, in response, Grissom and his graveyard shift ran onto the field to meet them. A few words, a few pushes and then a bench-clearing brawl worthy of the major leagues.  
  
Eventually, the sheriff's department, who'd been officiating the game, had to call for back-up from the stands to separate the combatants. Sheriff Mobley, who had wisely opted NOT to participate in umpiring but had shown as a spectator, managed, with threats and fears of retribution, to finally separate the battling CSIs. It was Captain Brass that organized the cars to take the injured to the local hospital.  
  
In the end, though the final score read 6-5 in favor of Grissom's Graveyard Shift, the real score was tallied at the local hospital. One concussion, two broken wrists, two broken noses, three broken fingers, a fractured hand, assorted black eyes and a dislocated collarbone for the Graveyard while Ecklie's Astros suffered two concussions, two fractured hands, one broken wrist, a sprained knee, a broken foot and a broken nose along with a myriad of black eyes and sore knuckles.  
  
As the last of the cars pulled away, carting off virtually the entire staff of the Las Vegas Crime Scene Investigation lab, Sherif Brian Mobley and Captain Jim Brass stood silent among the wrecked field. Brass pulled out his notepad.  
  
"So, how do you call it?" he asked, clicking his pen.  
  
Mobley shook his head. "Put it down as a draw."  
  
Brass huffed as he scribbled his note. "And next year?"  
  
"I'm thinking of a chess tournament."  
  
Brass grinned. Grissom would like that. Including himself, he had the three best chess players on night shift. 


End file.
